To his disappointment, the truck came to a halt quite soon. The engine was turned off, then the driver’s door opened and slammed shut. Then nothing. Lloyd lay still for a while, but the driver did not return.

Lloyd looked at the sky. The sun was high: it must be after midday. The driver was probably having lunch.

The trouble was, Lloyd continued to be visible from high windows on both sides of the street. If he remained where he was he would be noticed sooner or later. And then there was no telling what might happen.

He saw a curtain twitch in an attic, and that decided him.

He stood up and looked over the side. A man in a business suit walking along the pavement stared in curiosity but did not stop.

Lloyd scrambled over the side of the truck and dropped to the ground. He found himself outside a bar-restaurant. No doubt that was where the driver had gone. To Lloyd’s horror there were two men in German army uniforms sitting at a window table with glasses of beer in their hands. By a miracle they did not look at Lloyd.

He walked quickly away.

He looked around alertly as he walked. Everyone he passed stared at him: they knew exactly what he was. One woman screamed and ran away. He realized he needed to change his khaki shirt and trousers for something more French in the next few minutes.

A young man took him by the arm. ‘Come with me,’ he said in English with a heavy accent. ‘I will ’elp you ’ide.’

He turned down a side street. Lloyd had no reason to trust this man, but he had to make a split-second decision, and he went along.

‘This way,’ the young man said, and steered Lloyd into a small house.

In a bare kitchen was a young woman with a baby. The young man introduced himself as Maurice, the woman as his wife, Marcelle, and the baby as Simone.

Lloyd allowed himself a moment of grateful relief. He had escaped from the Germans! He was still in danger, but he was off the streets and in a friendly house.

The stiffly correct French Lloyd had learned in school and at Cambridge had become more colloquial during his escape from Spain, and especially in the two weeks he spent picking grapes in Bordeaux. ‘You’re very kind,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

Maurice replied in French, evidently relieved not to have to speak English. ‘I guess you’d like something to eat.’

‘Very much.’

Marcelle rapidly cut several slices off a long loaf and put them on the table with a round of cheese and a wine bottle with no label. Lloyd sat down and tucked in ravenously.

‘I’ll give you some old clothes,’ said Maurice. ‘But also, you must try to walk differently. You were striding along looking all around you, so alert and interested, you might as well have a sign around your neck saying “Visitor from England”. Better to shuffle with your eyes on the ground.’